


Concession

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Injury Recovery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 21:06:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5348498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just standing here feels like he’s getting away with something he shouldn’t, that any moment it will all fall away, that Shuu will see him as he truly is and will let his disgust overtake him and what’s between the two of them will crumble away like stale bread.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Concession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BeautifulThief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulThief/gifts).



> (12/4 himuniji)--blood cw (fairly mild tho)
> 
> for cassie, because i know she likes this kind of nijihimu. and also as an apology for not being around as often as i should be orz

Tatsuya never loses consciousness, but he pretends to—he’s reached the point where he just wants this to be over and has more regret than a desire to continue, to land one more hit when his opponents get in five (and there are eight of them and one of him; if he’d known that for sure from the start he wouldn’t have risen to take the bait—he’s not that stupidly reckless, even if he’s doing this half-because he’s looking for a punishment). They race off, feet hitting the pavement rough and uneven (and even though they’ve reduced him to this state he hasn’t let them away unscathed; it’s enough to count as a consolation at this point).

The air smells like blood and dirt; his neck is still bleeding even though the wound is shallow and he can feel the blood dripping down his skin and spreading against his collarbone. So much for this shirt—at least it’s black and it won’t show too much walking back. Although, before he walks back he has to collect himself enough to stand—fortunately his feet and ankles are fine, but he’s still lost more blood than he’d have liked to and they’d punched him in the stomach several times. And now that he’s thinking about it his stomach churns and a wave of nausea passes through him as if he’s been standing in the ocean facing the shoreline, unaware of the tide pulling back against his legs. He tries to steady himself but it’s too late; he turns and vomits to the side of him.

At least he’s a little bit more clear-headed when it’s over, enough to at least try to stand up. He raises himself against the wall, rough stone edges scraping against the cuts and bruises all over again. It’s bearable enough, even if he has to lean with hands on knees to collect himself again. He rises much slower; this time he feels the ring settle against his chest and clutches at it. It’s still there; the repaired chain still in working condition—he fingers every link; none is broken. The ring retains its shape. Tatsuya’s fifth finger barely fits through it, but it still does and he slips it in briefly. It’s enough of a distraction to steady his breathing without having to try too hard, but when he tries to walk again it’s too soon and he stumbles twice.

The sound is loud, echoing across the cavernous alley, and Tatsuya stiffens. If anyone’s here—even though he’s nearing the edge of the alley, that probably won’t help this late at night. He hears the distinctive thump of footsteps, but it seems to be coming from outside. It could still be someone he can’t afford to meet right now. He forces his head up to get a good enough look at the person, only realizing it’s too far and his face is showing when the person stops short. This might be even worse than he’s been dreading.

“Tatsuya?”

Shuu doesn’t even live around here, so what he’s doing this late with a drugstore bag in his hand is beyond Tatsuya (although he supposes it’s not really his business, either). He tries to put on a smile but he’s aware it comes off as more of a grimace, but even as he shifts his face back to neutrality Shuu’s already caught it and he’s striding into the alley, hurrying toward him.

“Jesus.”

Tatsuya knows he looks terrible, smells terrible (and he certainly feels terrible)—but Shuu’s face is filled with something that most certainly isn’t disgust before he dips his shoulder and grasps Tatsuya around the waist, trying to shoulder his weight. Tatsuya’s still clinging to the wall, still half-unsure.

“I can walk. I’ve seen worse.”

This might be the wrong thing to say; Shuu only tightens his grip as if he’s afraid Tatsuya’s going to fall despite all the support, or disappear or fly away or something.

“We have to get you to the hospital.”

“No,” says Tatsuya, as firm and strong and loud as he can muster.

There’s no way he’s letting his parents’ insurance plan in on this, no way they’re getting a bill for it—he’s mostly stopped bleeding and does not need stitches; nothing’s broken.

“Tatsuya—”

“I need to go home,” he says; his voice almost catches in his throat. “Once I clean up it won’t look so bad.”

It’s still going to look pretty bad—and Shuu knows this; Shuu fights and there have doubtless been times when he’s lost. And Shuu’s seen him a few days after fights like tonight’s, when he’s still bruised and bandaged and sore and tender, and that’s what makes this even more of a problem. Because Shuu always gives him those looks, worry woven deep into the lines of his face like rivers at the bottom of canyons, and even though he tries not to let it bleed through it’s obvious when he hangs on and worries over Tatsuya. And this isn’t the kind of attention Tatsuya wants; Shuu shouldn’t be worrying about him like this—it’s useless to worry about someone like him after all, and Shuu shouldn’t care this much.

But he does care; the concern does not ebb away from his face (and it’s evident even illuminated by the sparse lights from the closed storefronts). Tatsuya gives him a small smile and then stutters half a step in the direction of his house, away from the hospital. And Shuu yields, letting himself be turned before taking the lead again, still supporting Tatsuya’s weight.

“How did this happen?”

“Just a fight,” Tatsuya says (the more he deflects the better, the less Shuu knows the better—even though he’s okay with Tatsuya like this now, the cause of the fight and how it went down and Tatsuya’s recklessness might make him reconsider caring in the first place).

He’s still dizzy, but his legs are still working and going in the right direction. Shuu’s grip remains tight around his waist.

“Who was it?”

“Some guys. I didn’t know them.”

And he probably won’t see them again, and if he does they probably won’t give him trouble (or if they try he’ll be able to talk his way out of it—even if he can take as good as he gives he’s not going into a one-on-eight like this again on purpose).

They walk in silence for a bit; Shuu keeps glancing over as if at any moment Tatsuya might lose consciousness. He’s pretty sure he won’t; he’s much steadier on his feet now—he’s a little bit lightheaded still but the pace of walking and the security of Shuu’s arm around his waist are enough to ground him. They stop at the corner and Tatsuya looks up; they’re only a few blocks away from his house. The welt on his arm from where it had been caught by someone’s belt is throbbing, this particular source of pain deciding to reenter his consciousness now of all times. Fuck. He tries not to wince or let the pain show through on his face; luckily Shuu’s not glancing over quite as much.

And they’re almost there; he keeps repeating the mantra inside his head. They’re almost there; he’ll say goodbye to Shuu at the door and then clean himself off and collapse into bed and wake up tomorrow an achy mess and find some way of apologizing to Shuu about all of this later, when he can think straight. And they’re finally at his doorstep, and he unlocks the door—and before he can send Shuu out, he’s slipping inside next to him.

The house is dark and quiet; his parents had gone to bed even before he’d snuck out of his window. They’re sound sleepers, anyway; though the sound of the lock echoes over the foyer his parents are a floor above on the opposite corner and the noise will be muffled and unheard. The stairs creak only slightly under their weights, and Tatsuya goes no faster than Shuu expects him to. And Shuu’s still here, even though he’s finished with the task he’d set out to do. Tatsuya’s home, and he’s going to clean up and go to bed and that’s going to be that.

Shuu follows him into the bathroom, and Tatsuya shuts the door behind them before he speaks.

“You should go home; it’s late.”

Shuu stares at him—with the overhead light on, Tatsuya’s sure the bloodstains on his shirt are clearer and the blood and bruises on his skin make more of a contrast against his pale skin. But Shuu still doesn’t look disgusted; he shakes his head and reaches for Tatsuya’s hand.

“I’m not just going to leave you like this.”

“It’s fine; I can clean myself off.”

“I know you can, but—” Shuu breaks off, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not the point. I can’t let myself—I won’t—“

He’s searching for words; Tatsuya could easily shut him down, accuse him of making it about himself and fulfilling some nominal duty as a good boyfriend when it’s really about Tatsuya’s injuries (which are really inconsequential and nothing for Shuu to be worrying about at this point despite the fact that he clearly is worrying and is going to stay worried for a while). He could start a fight and push him away, throw him out and shove the topic under the rug and add it to the long list of things they don’t talk about. He’s still looking at Tatsuya like that, still holding his hand (and his pulse is wild and erratic), and Tatsuya holds his breath. He still has it in him to fight but he doesn’t want to; he’s weakening all too quickly to the selfish desire for this kind of comfort, to not go through this himself, no matter the long-term consequences, no matter if it brings Shuu closer when he should be pushing him away (when Shuu should be repulsed by all of this in the first place), no matter if he’s letting Shuu into a place he doesn’t want him to see.

“Okay,” Tatsuya says.

Shuu squeezes his hand, and his other hand almost reaches out as if he’s going to pull Tatsuya closer again, hold him tightly (or maybe it’s just Tatsuya projecting his own stupid selfish desire to be held, to bury his bloody face in Shuu’s neck and pretend there’s nothing else in the world). Shuu drops his hand and makes his way over to the medicine cabinet, and Tatsuya sits down on the lip of the bathtub.

He shucks his shirt, letting it scrape over the bruises and cuts as he pulls it away from his skin but only gritting his teeth at the momentary pain. With a turn of Shuu’s hand on the valve, the showerhead comes to life, hitting the porcelain tub with sharp sounds that Tatsuya almost wants to flinch at. Shuu procures a washcloth and soap, and after he wets the cloth in the spray and rubs it with the bar of soap until it foams, he sits down next to Tatsuya and begins to very gingerly clean Tatsuya’s face.

Tatsuya closes his eyes; the water is cold and he’d rather not have his face be this close to Shuu’s when they’re looking at each other, when Shuu’s peering so intensely at him. Shuu lifts his hair out of the way to clean his brow, and even over the pounding of the water Tatsuya can hear him hiss at the sight of the gash. His hair is still sticky with blood; Shuu cleans that off, too. He has to keep going back to the shower with the washcloth to wash it out; even without looking Tatsuya’s got the image in his head of how it must look with the red-tinted water rushing down toward the drain. He can smell the oxidized tang in the air, feel the crust of dried blood across his forehead loosen under Shuu’s touch. Shuu moves down to his neck and jaw, and Tatsuya opens his eyes—and then wishes he hadn’t.

Shuu’s face is even further etched with concern, creased crisper than a hotel blanket with worry, and Tatsuya wants to cry out. He has no idea how to deal with this kind of attention when he’s in this state; that Shuu’s concern is so thorough, so pure, is throwing Tatsuya’s emotions out of whack. He wants to sob into Shuu’s chest, but breaking down would just make it worse. He can’t. He can’t let Shuu see him even weaker than this.

“Can I do your back?”

“Yes.”

He could do it himself, has done it himself many times before standing under the shower, scrubbed the dirt and blood from his wounds and pressed too hard with the soap on purpose to make it hurt even more. At least right now he doesn’t have to look Shuu in the face (and it would be better if Shuu was really angry or disgusted with him, or even disappointed—part of Tatsuya can’t bear that possibility and has ever-so-carefully tried to ensure that no matter what happens that never does, but part of Tatsuya has decided that in the long run a Shuu who’s disappointed in him, disgusted with him as he should be, will let him go more easily and make the process a little bit less painful for Tatsuya himself).

He twists around, giving Shuu access—his back’s not as bad as his front, just scraped and bruised and dirty from being slammed against the asphalt and the rough walls that face the alley. Shuu rubs with the washcloth just as gently as he had on Tatsuya’s face. It hurts, but not nearly as much as it should, as much as the stinging brunt of it does whenever it’s just Tatsuya’s own blind fingers and a bar of soap. Shuu rubs a little bit harder and murmurs an apology; there’s nothing to be sorry about except that it’s too good. He doesn’t deserve to be taken care of like this; he doesn’t deserve Shuu’s kindness. Just standing here feels like he’s getting away with something he shouldn’t, that any moment it will all fall away, that Shuu will see him as he truly is and will let his disgust overtake him and what’s between the two of them will crumble away like stale bread.

“Are you cold?”

It’s then Tatsuya realizes his body’s shaking—a wave of revulsion passes through him. Stopping himself from crying shouldn’t be this hard.

“It’s just leftover adrenaline,” Tatsuya says.

Shuu probably knows he’s lying, but he chooses to drop the subject for now. Tatsuya closes his eyes again when Shuu finishes and looks back around to his front, checking that he hasn’t missed anything. The faucet squeaks to a halt; Shuu gets to his feet and Tatsuya opens his eyes. He’s been over here often enough to know the ins and outs of Tatsuya’s medicine cabinet, and he’s got the rubbing alcohol, disinfectant, bandages, and paper towels before Tatsuya’s managed to grab a towel off the rack to pat himself off with. Shuu sits back down on the lip of the tub, and before he begins he brushes the hair back from Tatsuya’s face (once again baring the gash on his forehead, and everything else) and looks him in the eye once again. Tatsuya bites his lip, but does not blink.

Just as he’d done with the soapy washcloth, Shuu gently rubs each alcohol-soaked paper towel over Tatsuya’s skin to clean out the cuts—it can’t stop the sting of the alcohol against the open wounds but Tatsuya doesn’t flinch. And after each one he seals the area with a disinfectant-covered adhesive bandage, patting it in place firmly but gently. Tatsuya grabs a few from the open box and begins to bandage the cuts on his abdomen (he’s not going to be able to just sit here passively and not help himself no matter how much it hurts and especially because Shuu’s been doing so much already). Shuu sighs but doesn’t say anything, carefully covering the last of the cuts on Tatsuya’s neck, and it’s finally done. He pulls Tatsuya to his feet, but Tatsuya refuses to lean on him as they walk back to the bedroom, light-headedness be damned, and he pretends to ignore the way Shuu’s hands are hovering near him in case he does fall (at least Shuu leaves him alone once he’s settled into bed, as it turns out to fetch him a much-needed glass of water that Tatsuya gulps down greedily).

It’s late; it’s too late for Shuu to go back alone and he seems to have no intention of leaving anyway. And Tatsuya wants him to stay—even if he’s done more than enough already, even if it means he’ll have to face him all over again in the morning. He doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts right now; he doesn’t want to let himself cry (and when he’s alone it’s harder to stop himself) and he needs the reassurance of Shuu lying beside him, even if it’s a reassurance that’s too dangerous to let himself believe.

Shuu lies close to him on the bed but not close enough to accidentally touch his back or shoulder or cheek, but their hands are close enough for Tatsuya to feel the heat beneath the covers. And Tatsuya wants to move his hand away, should move his hand away—but he leaves it, fingers relaxed and unfurled against the mattress. Tatsuya steadies his breathing; he feels Shuu shift into a more comfortable position but that begins to register less and less as he falls into sleep.

“Tatsuya,” Shuu whispers, and Tatsuya’s consciousness snaps back.

“Take care of yourself.”

His voice, even at this level, cracks on the last syllable—it’s raw, rougher than an unfinished floorboard splintering into Tatsuya’s ears. He can hear Shuu’s breath still shaking and his guts are starting to churn inside of him. All the guilt he’d momentarily suppressed is coming back up; he shouldn’t make Shuu feel this way; he can’t hold Shuu this close only to hurt him—he shouldn’t have let Shuu get this attached in the first place. Shuu sighs; Tatsuya knows he wasn’t meant to hear any of this, that Shuu thinks he’s sleeping. And if there’s anything else he wants to say, Tatsuya knows he probably won’t be able to handle it right now. But he hears no more before he finally does fall asleep.

* * *

The first thing he notices when he wakes up is how sore and stiff he is—he’s had worse, but it’s still not a great feeling. He attempts to roll over, but it takes a bigger push that he’s used to and even though Shuu’s not a very light sleeper he notices, opening his eyes and yawning. His face is closer to Tatsuya’s; his body is tilted so that it’s facing inward and his arm is outstretched.

“Hey,” he says. “How are you?”

Tatsuya’s about to automatically respond that he’s fine, but stops himself—he’s lied too much to Shuu already, and he doesn’t have to lie right now to reassure him.

“Better,” he says, meeting Shuu’s gaze.

Shuu’s eyes are softer than silk sheets; Tatsuya swallows. He reaches out to thumb Tatsuya’s jawline, tracing over the bandage on the underside of his chin.

“Please be more careful.”

He’s more prepared for it this time, but this time he has to look at Shuu’s face, the worry rippling up to the surface. This time the urge to cry is not as pressing. And he wants to ease Shuu’s worry as much as he can, even if he can’t stop Shuu from feeling the worry in the first place.

“Okay.”

It’s enough for Shuu; he engulfs Tatsuya into an embrace, still careful not to press his fingers against the bruises. The sheets are still between their bodies; Shuu still smells like slightly rusty soap. And as long as they still have this, as long as it keeps going before the bottom falls out from underneath him, he’ll end up making these kinds of concessions to Shuu, promises he doesn’t mean to keep or thinks he can’t but ends up keeping anyway because he can’t not.

And he doesn’t want to let go of Shuu right now, so he holds on a little bit tighter.


End file.
